


The myth of fingerprints

by marginaliana



Category: Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-26
Updated: 2015-09-26
Packaged: 2018-04-20 17:08:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4795499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marginaliana/pseuds/marginaliana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're sitting in the pub one night, just the two of them, when James catches half a glimpse of Jeremy's mark. Not the entire thing – not even enough to identify its shape – just a tantalizing little dark curve of ink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The myth of fingerprints

It's a simple thing that sets it all off. They're sitting in the pub one night, just the two of them, when James catches half a glimpse of Jeremy's mark. Not the entire thing – not even enough to identify its shape – just a tantalizing little dark curve of ink. Jeremy is reaching across the table, a playful snatch at James' plate full of chips, and the grey fabric of his wristband catches on some imperfection of the tabletop, curls back just a fraction of an inch to reveal a strip of paler skin. The edge of the mark is there, too – it's darkly colored, perhaps black, though it's hard to be sure in the dim light of the pub, and the ink looks a little smudged, not quite crisp.

Something about it draws James' attention as sharply as a poke in the ribs. They've known each other four or five years now, been actual friends for two of those, but he's never asked about Jeremy's mark. He'd chalked up the wristband to Jeremy's sense of sentimentality, perhaps, wanting only his match to see and touch the mark (which was the kind of daft romantic gesture that Jeremy would probably mock himself for, and then keep to anyway) or just a generalized desire for privacy when working in television. Or perhaps he has the same reason as James does for wearing one – the result of coming of age in the seventies, by which point the marks were expected but not always welcome in the forms they chose. 

Perhaps, like James', it's just bloody embarrassing.

Jeremy tugs the wristband down with a hurried jerk of fingers. James opens his mouth to say something amusing about it, then glances up at Jeremy's pale face and scuttles the idea immediately. Instead he merely says, mildly, "Hands off my dinner, Clarkson, or you'll be giving Kiff a run for his money in a minute."

Jeremy's eyes gleam faintly with gratitude as he scoffs and says, "I'm just giving you an opportunity to demonstrate generosity, May. One of your best qualities." It's the kind of odd compliment that Jeremy revels in giving: ironic, pointed, and designed to leave him no reasonable method of countering it – but no less sincere for that. James snorts.

"You'll be helping yourself to my Ferrari next," he says.

"What a charming idea," says Jeremy. "I'll swing 'round on Monday, shall I?" He steals another chip – with his left hand this time. James sighs dramatically, but lets him.

\-----

That night, as he's getting ready for bed, James lets himself linger over his own mark for the first time in a long while. Now, at forty two and with years of social progress behind him, he's finally learned to think of it without shame or fear, without the weight of his parents' disappointment ("Why couldn't your mark have been a nice airplane, or an engine part, or a piano, even? Why _this_ , James?"). But neither is he used to looking at it other than as part of the nightly and morning routines. Mostly it's just another part of him, like his nose or chin. Or like his nipples, perhaps, which is a better metaphor because they're a part of his body he generally keeps covered.

It doesn't do, he reminds himself, to dwell on the fact that he hasn't found his match. Perhaps he ought to have registered – but when his mark had first appeared the registries were just being founded and they were open to the public, shelves full of photocopied books stacked in a room in the county record office. He hadn't dared put an image of his mark down, not with his name attached, and he'd limited his sexual encounters to anonymous ones, to men he'd met in the alleys behind certain types of pubs. There was nothing illegal about sex with someone who didn't match you, of course, but it wasn't the sort of thing you did out in the open, either. 

Later, when the records were computerized, he'd been just starting out in journalism, so skint that he couldn't spare the twenty pounds fee. He'd kept telling himself he'd register next month, or the next, or the next, as soon as he got the money. But there was always something more important to spend it on. 

Now, of course, it's free to register on the international list, the data anonymized unless you can show a matching mark. He needn't worry that his information will be splashed all over the internet, that he'll be the butt of endless jokes and always in danger of getting punched by drunk men in pubs. But something keeps holding him back.

Whoever James' match is, he (and it'll be a man, James had known that even before he got the mark) has probably given up by now. Has probably met someone he likes just as well, written his match off for dead or too young or from some country where the registry doesn't reach. Perhaps he's even tattooed over it, the way James has heard that some people do, turning it into a flower or a rocket ship or god-knows-what. It would be cruel to interrupt someone's life like that, James tells himself, especially now that Top Gear's begun to take off. Matching with someone now would put them under a hell of a lot of scrutiny. 

And that's even assuming James could find him. Most likely his match, whoever he is, has probably been as leery of registering as James has, just because of the mark itself. Maybe James would end up putting himself out there for nothing.

So it's all a bit of a muddle, sadly, and one that James can't quite see a way out of. Mostly these days he just takes care of his own needs, in terms of sex, and if that is occasionally unfulfilling in a way that he can't quite describe, at least it's relatively tidy. 

Still, it doesn't stop him wishing, sometimes, that he'd been able to do the thing properly from the beginning. Wishing that he could find that one person with whom he shares this indelible connection. 'Soulmate,' as the young people of today call it, as if everyone were sure about souls, about mates. James has always preferred the old-fashioned 'match' terminology. Two of a kind, but with nothing assumed about what kind, exactly. It's not as if anyone really knows how the matches work. 

When James realizes he's been stood in front of the mirror rubbing his thumb across his mark for five whole minutes, he sighs. Match Day's less than two months away, and it'll be sixty years this year since the marks first appeared. A good, round number. Maybe that's a sign. Maybe this year he ought to take the chance. 

\-----

James' sleep is unsettled, and in the morning he finds himself more than usually distracted. His mark is bared again in the shower, and something about the sight of it makes him think about that glimpse of Jeremy's – that little curve of black ink on pale skin. After that, he can't stop thinking about it, wondering what shape he would have revealed had he reached out and curled his fingertips over the edge of the cloth. 

The question keeps him occupied through the whole drive to the office. Something car-related? A steering wheel, an accelerator pedal? That seems too pat, somehow, though he can't discount the possibility entirely. Something romantic? The image of a flower twining across Jeremy's pulse point sends an unexpected pang of sweetness through James' chest. Or perhaps it's a hammer, James thinks, and startles himself into laughter.

He's not entirely sure why he hasn't wondered about it before. Perhaps because the other people he works most closely with all wear their marks so openly – Richard the little watercolor of a horse which he shares with Mindy, Andy the same abstract pattern of dots as his wife, Iain's stylized sand dune shape, Kiff's blade of grass. 

Or perhaps because he superstitiously worries that thinking about Jeremy's would somehow tempt fate into making Jeremy think about _his_ mark. And frankly, if Jeremy ever did find out what his mark was, James would never, ever hear the end of it.

But superstition isn't enough to stifle his interest now that it's well and truly piqued. He doesn't know much about Jeremy's personal life. He knows that Jeremy isn't with his match, and also that he isn't a widower or anything like that. But he doesn't know whether Jeremy is in the registry, doesn't know whether he's looking or choosing not to look, if he's a Denier. Somehow he can't see this last for Jeremy – Denialism is too strident to suit him. Maybe it's just that somewhere out there, unreachable in Botswana or wherever, is a beautiful, exotic woman who keeps staring incredulously at the picture of a Lamborghini on her wrist.

Or, hell, maybe Jeremy's match is _actually_ Kristin Scott Thomas. What a turn up for the books that would be.

By the time James reaches the office, he's thought of twenty different possibilities for Jeremy's mark, each madder than the last. Which means that when he walks in the door and finds Jeremy sitting at his desk with his shirtsleeves rolled up and his banded wrist on clear display, it's difficult not to stare. 

Jeremy looks up as James comes in, pushing away the pile of papers in front of him in a sharp, exaggerated motion. "May!" he says cheerfully. "Thank god you've come to save me from this rubbish."

James snorts to hide the fact that he's just a little bit flushed. "What is it, more on that Tesla thing?"

"Worse!" Jeremy proclaims. "It's a Hyundai."

"Oh, no," James says, deadpan. "However will you bear up under the strain of all that boredom?"

"I'm sure I don't know," Jeremy says. "Perhaps it'll have to involve gin."

\-----

Not staring doesn't get any easier over the course of the day. It feels like Jeremy is constantly handing him things, or fiddling with a pen, or touching James' elbow to get his attention, and he seems to have developed a little nervous tic of clasping his left hand around the wristband twenty million times an hour, as if to nervously assure himself it's still there. And so James' eyes keep being drawn back to Jeremy's hands and wrists – to the tanned skin and dusting of wiry hair on his forearms, to the tendon on the underside that flexes when he's lifting the stapler.

His distraction is bad enough that at one point Richard has to elbow him rather un-gently just to draw his attention back to the discussion about last minute Oslo edits that they're supposed to be having. James winces, but gives Richard a nod of thanks anyway, and after that he makes himself keep his eyes firmly locked on Andy's face for the rest of the conversation.

Thankfully Jeremy seems oblivious to James' surreptitious interest, or perhaps it's only that he's so preoccupied with whatever's on his mind that he hasn't any attention to spare for noticing James being weirder than usual. Because he _is_ preoccupied, and ends up with an elbow in the ribs of his own not long after James' – though the one Jeremy gets is from Andy, and is therefore even less gentle.

When they leave the office at the end of the day, though, he slaps James on the back and gives him a grin, just as he's done a hundred times before. James watches him go with an unfamiliar emotion swirling in his chest. Part of him wants to call Jeremy back, suggest a trip to the pub even though they'd just had dinner together the night before. They'll be in the studio tomorrow, too, and there'll be drinks after that with the crew, so it isn't as if they haven't plentiful opportunities to sit around and talk bollocks. 

"James—" Richard's voice startles James out of his contemplation.

"Mmm?" he says. After a moment he turns away from Jeremy's retreating form and discovers Richard with a decidedly odd expression on his face.

On second thought, if he's going to keep speculating about Jeremy – and there's no point in lying to himself, he's definitely going to keep speculating – perhaps it's better not to be around any of his coworkers just at the moment. "Did you need something?" he asks.

Richard looks momentarily amused. "No, no," he says. "By all means, carry on." He sobers a little, and his eyes flick downward for a moment before coming back up to lock on James'. "Look, I hope you know what you're doing."

"What?"

"Of course you don't know what you're doing," Richard says, almost to himself. Then he shakes his head and claps James on the arm before walking away.

James stares after him, feeling extremely confused. Eventually, for lack of anything better, he just shouts "Pillock!" after Richard's retreating figure.

\----

That night, after a feeble attempt to distract himself by watching a series of documentaries about the history of espionage, he dreams of Jeremy – in the sunlight, laughing as they chase each other. They're at the track but alone, with no one in sight for what seems like miles, though there's the distant bee-like hum of an engine. It's a summer's day, and sweat has begun to gather on the back of James' neck, in the hollows of his knees. 

Jeremy catches James at last, his longer legs giving the advantage, and they stumble up against the sun-warmed metal of the portakabin. James is breathless, both from the run and the look in Jeremy's eyes. Jeremy loops his arms around James' neck, leans in to kiss him, still smiling. 

They kiss lazily, the press of Jeremy's tongue as slow and sweet as poured honey. James sighs out a breath and hooks his fingers in the belt loops of Jeremy's jeans, tugs him closer so they can lean against the wall and kiss and kiss and kiss. A breeze ruffles the hair at James' temples, leaves a prickle of sensation across his sweat-dappled skin. Jeremy's leg is pressed between his thighs, and James can feel Jeremy's cock, as hard as his own, against the jut of his hip.

He lets his hands slide upwards, stroking broad swaths over Jeremy's shoulder blades. Jeremy's skin is warm, even through the thin fabric of his tee shirt. He groans into James' mouth, ruts their bodies together in a slow grind that leaves James gasping. It's so good that James has to turn his face away, press it against the skin of Jeremy's bicep in an attempt to gather some sort of composure.

But it's no use. There is a smattering of freckles down the underside of Jeremy's arm, so gorgeous that James ends up tracing them with the tip of his tongue. Jeremy groans again, leans back just enough that James can cup his elbow in one hand and draw the delicate skin there to his mouth. He leaves a trail of open-mouthed kisses down Jeremy's forearm, over the vein on the underside, down to the pale, unmarked skin of his wrist.

 _Hang on,_ James thinks. He lifts his own wrist, lines them up side by side, but it's bare, too. When he looks up, Jeremy is watching him indulgently. He reaches to cup James' face, draws him into another kiss. James says, "Jez, Jez—"

—and wakes, hard and aching. Sweat sticks the tangled sheets to his legs, and his hand is jammed halfway into his boxers.

 _Fuck,_ he thinks, rolling over onto his stomach so that he can rock into the cupped hollow of his palm. _This is a bad idea._ He grinds his hips down once, twice – and it's the easiest thing in the world to come thinking of Jeremy's warm skin against his lips.

\-----

They're at Dunsfold all day, surrounded by crew and fans and James Nesbitt, all of which ought to put a considerable damper on James' libido, not to mention the fact that he's just had a truly spectacular orgasm. But he can't stop thinking about it. It's as if by speculating about Jeremy's mark he'd somehow given his brain permission to speculate about all sort of other things, too: what Jeremy would taste like – his mouth, his thighs, his cock. Whether Jeremy would flush pink at being kissed, whether his mouth would curve into a shy little O the way it sometimes does when he's taken by surprise. Whether he could ever look at James the way he had in that dream, lustful and fond.

 _Oh, cock,_ James thinks, right in the middle of the introductory segment to their film about car football. _I'm really rather enchanted by him. When the hell did that happen?_

"Er, May?" Richard says.

James has completely failed to say his line. " _Balls,_ " he says, dragging his attention back to what he's actually supposed to be doing.

"Footballs, actually, but close enough," says Richard. "Unless you are volunteering to let us play car football with your actual testicles, which would be very amusing." That gets a tremendous laugh from the audience, and James gives Richard a quick, grateful glance.

"Your preoccupation with my testicles really is rather flattering," he says, and then, while Richard's sputtering, "Right, can we take that bit from the top?"

\-----

When filming's done they retire to the pub. James gets his pint and slides into a booth, suppressing the urge to groan when Jeremy slides in next to him. Thankfully Andy joins them a moment later, and then Richard beside him, so James can focus on debriefing the day's work rather than on the weight of Jeremy's arm against his.

"So that went well, I think," Richard says. "Apart from the bit where James decided that staring off into space was spectacularly more interesting than Top Gear."

 _I take back everything good I've ever said about you, Hammond,_ James thinks. "I was momentarily overcome with horror at the sight of your face, that's all," he says.

Jeremy snorts out a laugh. "Completely understandable," he says, with mock solemnity. "Happens to me all the time."

"Tossers," Richard says. "Should've known you two would gang up on me."

"Of course," Jeremy says. He slings his arm over James shoulders companionably. "May and I, unlike you, have something approaching good taste."

"Something moving swiftly away from good taste, I think you'll find."

"Says the man with an aged weasel for hair," Jeremy shoots back.

"You know," James says, "That weasel is looking a bit peaky. Possibly we should cut off your head and take it to the vet."

Richard throws a coaster at him, which is when Andy finally decides to intervene and turn the conversation back to the day's filming.

\-----

Jeremy leaves his arm over James' shoulders for nearly half an hour. It's a wrench for James not to lean into it, not to let himself slump against Jeremy's warmth. He keeps thinking about the dream, the lazy summer heat that they so rarely get in reality. Probably in real life Jeremy would whine endlessly about how sweaty he was. James suspects this would be rather endearing.

Eventually the others begin calling it a night in ones and twos, departing with genial goodbyes until it's just James and Jeremy left, now sitting opposite each other. James has been nursing his second pint all evening, knowing he'll have to drive home after, and at some point they'd ordered a basket of chips between them. Every time Jeremy reaches for one, James thinks about the other night, that slip of skin under the edge of his wristband. Jeremy's elbow rests on the table, and James lets his gaze trace the line of it, forearm and wrist and broad palm and long fingers. He wants to see that hand on his cock, wants to put Jeremy's fingers in his mouth and suck on them.

He really might be going a bit mad.

"I suppose we ought to take the good example of our coworkers and head home," Jeremy says, though he makes no move to get up.

James opens his mouth to say something rude about the propensity of their coworkers to set any sort of example, but what comes out is, "Can I ask you something personal?"

Jeremy gives him a wary look. "What?"

 _Cock,_ James thinks, but he's started it now. Might as well see where it ends. "What's your mark?"

Jeremy's left hand curls around his right wrist in that same unconscious little movement he's been making the last couple of days. "Why d'you want to know?"

James opens his mouth, hesitates, then says finally, "You never talk about it. You never— I don't know if you're registered and looking or if you think the whole thing's a load of toss or, or any of that. And... we're friends, aren't we?" It's probably as honest as he can be without saying, 'Also, I appear to want to bend you over this table and fuck you until you beg, and maybe if you show me your picture of an adorable donkey or whatever the hell it is, I can figure out how to stop being infatuated with you.' Which wouldn't be a good idea at all.

Jeremy looks at him for a long moment, and there's something in his expression that James can't quite read. "Come back to mine," he says eventually. "If you really want to know."

"Yeah, all right," James says, surprised. Maybe Jeremy's mark really _is_ as embarrassing as James', if he won't even give James a glimpse of it here in a booth in a back corner where no one else can see.

A few minutes later James is in his Porsche, heading for the motorway. Jeremy's Merc had passed him by on the way out of the car park. 

\-----

It takes an age to drive back from Dunsfold even on a day when there's nothing awaiting him at the other end, so by the time James pulls up in front of Jeremy's flat, he's basically twitching with anticipation. _What the hell have you got yourself into, May?_ he wonders. It has occurred to him that, having asked after Jeremy's mark, he's likely going to have to show his own, and thus let himself in for an eternity of piss-taking. Which is his just desserts, really, for being so nosy.

But Christ, he really wants to know. Wants to know this part of Jeremy just like he wants to know every other part.

Jeremy answers the door with a thin smile. "That was faster than I thought you'd be," he says, stepping back so James can enter. "I've only been here ten minutes."

"I can go quickly when appropriately motivated," James shoots back. "Just because I don't always see the need to go barreling around like an idiot—" 

It's a familiar argument, and Jeremy waves it off before James can even really get going. "Yeah, yeah. Tea?"

"Sure." He doesn't particularly want it, but Jeremy looks as nervous as a cat. Perhaps a little ritual will soothe him.

They don't talk while the kettle is boiling. After the water's poured, Jeremy leads James into the sitting room and they sit on opposite ends of the sofa. They stare at each other for a moment.

Jeremy takes a sip of tea, then grimaces and sets the cup down. Then he blurts, "Do you really want to see it?"

"Yes." James swallows. It suddenly occurs to him that he's being rather overbearing here. "But— Not if you really don't want to— I'm not going to keep bothering you about it if you say no. Honest, Jez. It's your business, and it won't kill me not to know if you'd really rather not."

Jeremy blows out a breath. "Nah, it's all right," he says finally. "I'll show you mine if you'll show me yours." He gives James an extravagant wink that has him flushing red from head to toe.

 _Oh, Christ, if he's going to flirt there's no way I'm getting out of this without humiliating myself._ James takes a sip of his tea just to settle himself.

But then Jeremy sobers, shoulders lifting in a little half shrug. "Don't you fucking dare laugh," he says. He lifts his left hand to his right wrist, hesitates, and then in one smooth movement unfastens the snaps and pulls the band off. 

James looks down. And bursts into shocked laughter.

Jeremy's face goes stormy, and he shoves himself up off the sofa. "Fucking hell, James!" He turns away, shoulders hunched. "Should've known," he mutters.

"Jez, wait!" James stumbles to his feet, hears his tea go clattering to the floor behind him. He catches up with Jeremy just as he reaches the doorway. "Wait," James says, breathless. His hands are shaking almost too hard to unfasten the snaps of his wristband. When his wrist is finally bare, he holds it out for Jeremy's inspection.

Jeremy sucks in a sharp breath. He holds out his own arm, lines it up next to James' in the light of the nearby lamp so that both marks can be seen side by side.

 _Yes,_ James thinks fiercely.

They match – two little careless pen and ink drawings of a cock and balls. Like a schoolboy's doodle, scratched permanently and identically across two patches of skin.

For most of his life, James hadn't understood why this was his mark. And then, somewhere around the time he'd found himself actually playing car darts and getting paid for it, something had clicked. 'Cocking about,' they'd sometimes termed it, and James had let himself have a little secret smile at how apt it was.

He'd never imagined it might be just as apt for Jeremy, too.

Jeremy is still staring down at the marks, a stunned expression on his face. James has a sudden moment of doubt. Maybe Jeremy really isn't queer. Most matches are romantic, but some aren't – he's heard of friends who are marked, brothers, mothers and children. 

"It doesn't have to—" he blurts. He could bear it, he thinks. Not having that, if he could still have something. If he could still have the knowledge that he's the most important person in Jeremy's life. "Not if you don't want—"

"Kiss me," Jeremy says hoarsely. James surges forwards. 

The kiss is a revelation. They've touched before, of course – handshakes and slaps on the back and nudges in the ribs – but not like this. Nothing like this. Jeremy's mouth is warm and soft, softer even than James had dared imagine, and he shivers at the sweetness of the kisses that Jeremy presses to his lips. Jeremy's arms go around James' waist, pulling him closer. James slides his palms up Jeremy's chest to rest at the vee of his collar. Every place they touch sparks something electric under his skin. 

James flickers out the tip of his tongue, traces the plump curve of Jeremy's bottom lip. Jeremy's lips part in a groan. "James," he says, the word no more than a gasp. "I thought— You couldn't possibly—"

"I do," James says. "I do."

"James. _James_." 

James kisses him again, tastes the softness of his lips and the wrinkles at the corners of his mouth. He trails his lips over Jeremy's jaw and the curve and lobe of his ear, kissing each spot carefully until Jeremy is shivering against him. It's intoxicating. James is greedy for every hitch of breath, for Jeremy's wide eyes and the flush that has swept over his cheeks and down his neck into the collar of his shirt.

Jeremy's hands slip under the waistband of James' jeans, fingertips just brushing the curve of his arse. James' hips stutter forward, his cock pressed against Jeremy's thigh. They both groan, a warm, shared exhale. 

"Take me to bed," James murmurs. Maybe they're moving a bit quickly – but he doesn't care, not in the slightest. "Jez."

Jeremy's grip convulses, pulling their bodies even more sharply together. "God, yes."

They stumble to the bedroom, too drunk on each other's skin to stop touching even now. James tugs at Jeremy's shirt buttons, gets them undone more by accident than anything else. His eyes are already fixated on the broad expanse of Jeremy's chest, faintly dusted with hair. He wants to put his mouth there, wants to taste all the things that had featured so heavily in his fantasies. But before he can dip his head, Jeremy shrugs the shirt off over his shoulders, lets it drop to the floor behind him. Then his hands are tugging at the hem of James' shirt, pulling it upwards.

James lets himself be divested, but the moment his arms are free again he smooths his palms down over Jeremy's shoulders, his chest, the round pouch of his stomach. Jeremy gives off heat like a furnace, always has, and James revels in the feeling of it.

"God," Jeremy says, shivering under James' touch. The flush on his face is following the path of James' hands, spreading down over his chest. "James." He kisses James again then, puts his hands on James' arse and tugs him closer.

James rocks his hips forwards; Jeremy gives a helpless little gasp at the friction and James deepens the kiss, groaning a little when their tongues touch. Jeremy kisses like he's starving for it, like he's desperate for the taste of James' mouth, and so James hangs on and kisses him for what feels like ages, slow and deep, until they're both absolutely gasping. When he finally breaks the kiss, it's only to trail his lips down the column of Jeremy's throat, tracing the curve of his Adam's apple and the hollow dip of his collar bone. 

"I dreamt about this," James says, letting the words murmur themselves across Jeremy's skin. "Dreamt about tasting you." He licks a long line up Jeremy's throat, feeling the rasp of stubble under his tongue. "About your gorgeous fucking skin."

Jeremy tilts his head back, breathes out something that's probably a curse as he arches into James' kiss, Then he wrenches himself away, fixing James with a pointed glare. "Why aren't you naked already?" he says, obviously attempting to sound peevish but only managing shaky. "Honestly, James, you're so bloody slow about things." His hands slide around James' waist to unfasten the buckle of his belt. 

"Mmm, I've been busy," James says with a laugh. He glances down and then sucks in a breath, arrested by the sight. From this angle Jeremy's mark is clearly visible, though it's distorted a little by the flex of the tendon in his wrist. 

Jeremy nuzzles his face into James' hair. "Want to see the real one?" he says, the grin audible in his voice.

"It'd better be significantly larger," James shoots back.

Jeremy gives his warm, gurgling laugh as he gets James' belt loose and unzips his jeans. James wriggles out of them, kicks them off into a corner of the room and then goes to work on Jeremy's. When he gets to the zip he takes shameless advantage of the opportunity, slipping his hand into the open vee to cup Jeremy's cock through the thin fabric of his boxers. Jeremy is warm here too, his cock hard and heavy with arousal and the cloth faintly damp already.

" _Christ_ ," Jeremy says, bucking into the touch. "James—"

"You feel so good," James says, pitching his voice low and giving Jeremy a slow squeeze. Jeremy's groan makes him brave enough to say the rest. "I want to put my mouth on you. Suck you off."

Jeremy's exhale is hard and sharp into James' ear. "God, yes," he says. "Have you— I— I mean. Fuck. You don't have to answer that."

"I have," says James quietly, turning to look at him but not removing his hand. "Once or twice. It was a long time ago." He licks his lips. "You?"

"I— No," Jeremy says, and then, closing his eyes and letting his forehead rest against James', "but I want to. With you."

James wonders a little about what kind of sex Jeremy's had, if he's had any relationships with men at all or if he'd stuck to women, just because it was safer. If he'd found someone who didn't mind that they didn't match, at least for a while, or if he's just been alone all this time. But he doesn't want to ask, not now, anyway. 

Besides, just the thought of Jeremy's mouth on his cock is enough to make him go a little bit weak in the knees. "I could show you how I like it," he murmurs, trying not to make it sound too much like a question.

"Yeah," Jeremy says. When he opens his eyes they're alarmingly close, alarmingly sincere. "Yes. Please."

They scramble out of the last of their clothing, shove back the sheets on the bed so that they can lie down together. James can't resist the urge to kiss Jeremy again, heated and sweet, and for a moment they just grind against each other, body to body, skin to skin.

By the time he slides down the bed his cock is throbbing and he's more than a little breathless. Jeremy's cock is thick and solid, definitely more impressive than the little doodle on his wrist. James runs his fingertips down the length of it, teasing, enjoying the way Jeremy's whole body jerks. 

" _Fuck_ ," Jeremy says, and then, "James. You're going to get an eyeful if you're not careful."

James grins. "I'd rather a mouthful." He curls one hand at the base of Jeremy's cock, holding it steady as he leans in and kisses the head, almost chastely at first and then softer, wetter. Jeremy groans softly, groans again louder when James sucks him in properly, closing his lips around just the tip and giving a slow, leisurely suck. The taste is stronger than James had remembered, but not entirely unpleasant, and after a moment he gets used to it, slides down to take a little bit more. 

"Oh god," says Jeremy. 

James gives him another suck, and then another, enjoying the way Jeremy's cock fills his mouth, the way it makes him feel weirdly powerful to be able to give this much pleasure. Gradually he falls into a rhythm, letting his tongue flicker across the underside and his thumb press against Jeremy's balls whenever his jaw gets tired. Jeremy is groaning steadily now, his breath coming in shudders and his hands clenched tight into the sheets. James dips his head and takes him as deep as he can, swallows – and Jeremy's groan bursts into a gasp.

"James—" It's clearly a warning, but James just hangs on, sucking hard as Jeremy shakes and arches and comes. "James," Jeremy says again, this time soft, wondering. 

When Jeremy stops shaking, James slides up the bed, puts their mouths together. Jeremy's lips part obligingly, and James can feel the moment when Jeremy tastes himself. 

"Mmm," Jeremy says, an ambivalent noise. 

James snorts, breaking the kiss to nuzzle a little against Jeremy's mouth. "It isn't exactly a nice rosé, is it?"

Jeremy huffs out a laugh. "No, definitely not." But his eyes are soft and locked on James', and after a moment he lifts a hand to carefully stroke back a bit of hair that has stuck itself to James' cheek. "I still want to try."

James flops onto his back, mainly to keep Jeremy from seeing how absolutely gooey the touch has made him. "Be my guest."

Jeremy flicks his ear and slides downwards. James' cock is so hard it aches and the first tentative touch of Jeremy's fingers almost makes his eyes roll back. Jeremy's thumb shivers over the head, smudging precome down the underside; he follows the path of it with his tongue, a sloppy lick that makes James shudder all the way from his hair to his toes. 

When Jeremy finally does start to suck him in earnest, it's hesitant, awkward, and all of that matters not at all compared to the heat of him, soft and slick. And when he gives an experimental suck, it's just as slow and sweet as James could ask for.

"Ah—" says James, "y-yes, _yes_ , Jez." He fists one hand in the sheet, curls the other at the nape of Jeremy's neck just to be touching him, just to feel warm skin against his palm. "That's so good. God, you're incredible." Jeremy looks up at that, and suddenly it's even better than before, because there's a shy sort of pride in his expression, the kind of look he only ever gets when he sets his persona aside and admits that he actually cares about something.

"You're incredible," James says again, low and utterly sincere.

Something of it must get through because Jeremy gets a little more confident after that, rolling James' testicles in his palm and varying the depth of his sucks, shallow and fast, slow and deep. A couple of times he has to pull off and breathe deeply but he keeps at it, and it doesn't take long before James can feel orgasm fizzing up, making his hips restless and his hands shake. 

"Jez—" he says, "Jeremy, god, I'm— if you don't want to—" Jeremy gives him a look that says fairly clearly he sure as fuck isn't going to stop now. And somehow that is it, absolutely it, and James comes laughing, gasping, with a tremendous smile stretched across his face.

\-----

Afterwards, Jeremy tugs up the sheet and they curl together underneath it, heads side by side on the pillow. The sheet is refreshingly cool against James' heated skin. Neither of them speaks, but eventually Jeremy reaches over and tugs at James' wrist, lifts it up, presses his lips to the place where James' mark blooms. 

_Maybe,_ James thinks, _there's something to this whole 'soulmates' lark after all._

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to purplejulie95 for the beta! This was inspired by [the bracelet](http://fuckyeahjeremyclarkson.tumblr.com/post/111879304813/justjezza-yay-the-cock-and-balls-bracelet). Match Day is July 16, 1945, in case you're curious about my worldbuilding here.


End file.
